


Imagine: A grace-less Castiel doing his darnedest to take care of you when you're sick.

by webcricket



Series: Castiel Imagines [47]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Sickfic, Temporarily Human Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 13:34:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17488982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket





	Imagine: A grace-less Castiel doing his darnedest to take care of you when you're sick.

_The plague -_ he read in an alarming article hyped in the headlines just last week in the _Lebanon Daily Star_ that the black death pandemic that wiped out half of Europe in the 14th century is experiencing a renaissance resurgence in house pets populating the southwest. _Mad-cow disease._ You do enjoy a cheeseburger almost as much as Dean with the added benefit of table manners. _Ebola._ The trip to the zoo several weeks ago where Castiel insisted on spending hours in the primate exhibit observing the monkeys fills his heart with foreboding. 

The list of fatal ailments he discovered in a Websummon search after plugging in your symptoms stretches endless in seriousness and judging by the patients populating the _Doctor Sexy_ reruns Dean plays between cases in his man cave, it seems like humans stricken suddenly by dire disease is a daily occurrence to be expected.

Cas is convinced you need a team of specialists caring for you in a fully-equipped quarantine ward rather than a grace-less angel who burned the toast he tried to make you to calm your upset stomach ... _twice_. You settled for crackers straight from the cupboard after he carried the smoking toaster into the bedroom, fingers singed black, eyes apologetically glassed, and hair frizzed on end after attempting to extricate an annihilated slice of bread from its fiery confines with a fork while the appliance was still plugged in. At least the flickering lights had nothing to do with a supernatural foe. 

Disregarding the fragility of his own immune system at present, the one-time soldier of the Lord perches on the mattress beside you; irises glaze in concern as he gazes at your shivering sweat-drenched figure thrashing fitfully beneath the thin white bed sheet. The aforementioned list nagging his thoughts, he brushes the saturated tendrils of hair aside from your temples to check for small pox lesions. Relieved to see none, he lays a tender touch upon your forehead.

Wakened from tenuous sleep when his palm presses to your dampened brow to test the temperature, your whine of protest rapidly devolves into a congested cough. Given his lack of angelic aptitude, he can only guess at the sweltering height of the number. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, the soft smile he usually reserves for you inverts into an anxious frown when the fatigued hollows of your watery eyes resolve on him. “You were having another bad dream.”

A fever dream to be exact. “S’okay.” You manage a strained sigh, throwing off the well-meant layers of extra warmth he piled on your extremities while you slept. Despite his inept nursing skills, there’s something reassuring about having him here as you drift in and out of consciousness. Muscles stiff and aching, you regret the loss of insulation, seized by a renewed wave of chills.

He frets over the hem of the wool blanket, fumbling his fingers along the scratchy fabric and tucking it again beneath your thighs. He doesn’t like seeing you wracked by shivers, at least not sickly ones. “Are you hungry?” he asks, feeling a burden of utter uselessness to ease your suffering in his human state. While you slept he looked up a video demonstrating how to make toast in a frying pan; going so far as to bookmark it for reference, he’s optimistic of his ability to mimic the task. If that doesn’t work, he has one requiring an iron to use as backup. And there’s always the can of chicken soup he discovered in the pantry if he wants to do battle with the microwave.

The thought of swallowing anything of substance sets your stomach churning precipitously upward. Rocking to your side, you assume the fetal position to suppress the rising pressure and prepare for the worst. 

If Cas had any sense about what was coming or fondness for his sneakers, he’d do the same. “Sorry,” he repeats the sentiment because he truly is, “I-” He’s not certain what he wants to say. The fact is, without his divine gifts, he’s out of his element. Deciding on a silent show of support in lieu of syllables, he lays a hand soothingly to your side, smoothing across the shuddering landscape until the nausea naturally subsides.

The distraction helps. Cas sticking it out when you must look and smell God-awful means the world to you because it’s evidence of his love. It’s one thing to say those three little words, another to dance them in a tangle of passion, but being there when you’re at your worst, that’s the real definition of devotion.

For Cas, it’s not enough. He wants to do better; to be better - for _you_ , so you get _better_. Losing you, it would be his biggest failure and one he isn’t sure he could survive.

Digging into his hoodie pocket, he retrieves his cell, closes the open web page of the sickness symptom checker, flicks through his short contacts list, and calls Sam on speakerphone.

“Hey, Cas. What’s up?” Sam answers.

“Y/N’s fever,” Cas murmurs, pausing his caress at the peak of your shoulder to squeeze, encouraging you to lie on your back. “I suspect malaria.”

“It’s not malaria,” Sam snorts, intuiting the former angel consulted the internet for a diagnosis.

Sam’s probably correct. You haven’t traveled to a tropical or subtropical region _ever_ so the odds of exposure hover in the region of extremely unlikely; unlikely, although not impossible. “Websummon suggested-”

“It’s not malaria,” Sam insists, unleashing an airy snicker.

“Gimme the ph-” The phone emits a static buzz as Dean steals it from his brother to slam it to his ear. “Look buddy, the last time we were in tropical paradise sippin’ cocktails was _never_.” The elder Winchester’s voice bellows confirming Cas’ own inner argument against the diagnosis. “Sam’s right. It’s just the flu or something simple. Y/N’ll be fine in a few days.”

It occurs to Cas if you do survive it’s high time for a vacation. First he needs to get you through it. Perhaps a call to Rowena would have been more helpful, but then there might be the nastiness of personal favors owed and he’s not certain, lacking celestial clout, what he’d have to trade for your life or if influenza is reason enough to involve a witch. All the anxiety emerges as a rasped, “But-”

“But nothing. There’s Tylenol in the first aid kit, two every 4-6 hours until the fever breaks,” the hunter advises. “And, Cas?”

“Yes?”

“Angel mojo or no, you got this.” The call disconnects.

“He’s right, you know,” you mumble weakly, garnering his attention; gravel inflammation grates your tonsils as you speak. Clammy cool fingers wrap his wrist until the phone falls forgotten from their flexing tips with a bounce on the bed.

“About the flu?” Cas’ brow crinkles in confusion. When you attempt to sit up, he props a pillow behind your back and ensures you stay covered and warm.

You shake your head, coughing into the crook of your arm. “No, about _you_ ,” you croak. “You being here, I already feel better.”

A smile curves at the corner of his mouth, flattening the fretful lines of his features; his eyes gleam so brightly blue you can’t tell if it’s the fever muddling your senses, or a tiny speck of grace still simmering somewhere within the seraph.


End file.
